


Only Half-Dead

by werelupewoods



Category: Neopets
Genre: M/M, i'm too tired to write additional tags rip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11620647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werelupewoods/pseuds/werelupewoods
Summary: " “Living” corpses aren’t at all an uncommon sight in the hunter’s line of work. Hell, even Oliverhimselfcould be considered one, by some standard. Shambling skeletons, rotting zombies, reanimated roadkill,allof it is commonplace on the hunt; and, honestly, under any other circumstances, Oliver catching a glimpse of a supposedly dead body writhing in its own jumbled mess of insides-turned-outsides would barely cause him to bat an eye; but...Well, typically, dead things don’t breathe.Especiallywhen in such a... mangled... state.No, no, whatever that is in the distance, it’s somehow alive.Maybe.Possibly.Hopefully not... for its sake. "Just the story of how my OC Shimon and Jammy's OC Oliver first met.





	Only Half-Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jammy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jammy/gifts).



> WOO HEY this ended up... wayyy longer than I had anticipated... but, I mean, hey, at least I finally got it done lmao.
> 
> Anyway, yeah, this is how I imagine Shi and Ollie first met. I hope I didn't accidentally write Oliver too OOC... but, well, still, here it is. Enjoy!!

Wait...

Hold on...

... Did that corpse just breathe...?

Oliver’s steps slow at the sight until he eventually comes to a confused halt. He leans slightly backwards to peek through the rubble of the destroyed town he’s been walking through, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose to try to get a better look at whatever miserable shape lies unmoving — or _mostly_ unmoving — in a pool of blood a few dozen feet to his right.

“Living” corpses aren’t at all an uncommon sight in the hunter’s line of work. Hell, even Oliver _himself_ could be considered one, by some standard. Shambling skeletons, rotting zombies, reanimated roadkill, _all_ of it is commonplace on the hunt; and, honestly, under any other circumstances, Oliver catching a glimpse of a supposedly dead body writhing in its own jumbled mess of insides-turned-outsides would barely cause him to bat an eye; but...

Well, typically, dead things don’t breathe. _Especially_ when in such a... mangled... state.

No, no, whatever that is in the distance, it’s somehow alive.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Hopefully not... for its sake.

His curiosity — and, honestly, boredom — is killing him, but Oliver knows better than to just approach the maybe-dead body in the sprint that his legs are begging him to. He keeps one hand on the handle of the whirligig saw that’s fastened to his back and instead slowly — but still definitely determinedly — approaches the bloody figure.

Once again, his steps slow as the form comes more into focus, and he sees that it looks like another hunter. Or, well, what _used to be_ another hunter. Still curiously confused, Oliver again pushes his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose, then continues slowly towards the still figure, now stepping tiptoe to avoid making any excess noise on the rubble of the destroyed city that surrounds him, just in case it actually _is_ somehow alive... or being used as bait...

Luckily for the Christmas Gelert, a quick spell to detect surrounding movement and a few seconds spent listening close to his surroundings helps to confirm to him that the coast is clear. He exhales soft and long, relaxing his tense shoulders and loosening his grip on his weapon, then leans in close to get a better look at the bloody figure.

Clad in tattered blacks and greys, the probably-dead probably-a-hunter is another Gelert who looks to be about Oliver’s height and build — just a few inches taller, and maybe a bit less toned — and has cream-coloured fur that’s paler than the overcast skies. His — well, Oliver is _assuming_ it’s a “he” — eyes and most of his face are completely concealed beneath the waves of his long, ridiculously thick hair, the tangled locks of which are wet with blood and clinging to his cheeks and neck. He’s lying on his side, his ears drooping pitifully over his muzzle, his clawed fingers weakly clutching at a gory, gaping wound in his stomach, as if his final moments were spent desperately trying to hold himself together.

Oliver, now standing directly over the body, makes a bit of a pout and shakes his head. It’s always such a sad sight seeing someone fall victim to the brutality of the hunter’s life. And this man, though he seems to be without weapons at all, looks like he had truly fought his hardest to stay alive... the poor bastard...

Oliver lets out a weary, saddened sigh, then decides to let the body lie. There’s probably useful things he could loot off of the corpse, but...

Hold on...

Wait...

“Oh, good gods, you _are_ alive...”

Oliver had just turned to leave when, lo and behold, the “dead” body breathes again — slowly, weakly, but still a breath no less. The pale pet’s shoulders rise just the slightest bit, his ribcage slowly expanding as he takes in what is no doubt the deepest breath he can muster, then he exhales in an exhausted huff, his wounds gushing with the collapse of his miraculously still-intact diaphragm.

And, as if the fact that he’s somehow breathing wasn’t enough to make Oliver’s stomach sink, the fact that the man somehow, despite everything, manages to muster a soft, short, “Hardly,” in response to Oliver’s rhetorical statement throws the Christmas Gelert completely into panic mode.

In the time it takes for Oliver to toss his weapons to the ground and begin channelling strong healing energy into his palms, he comes to realise that... well, he really _shouldn’t_ be too terribly surprised to be seeing someone still alive — _“alive”_ — despite whatever gruesome injury this mysterious Gelert seems to have gone through. Oliver himself, after all, has seen his fair share of should-have-been-fatal wounds and mysterious “rebirths” in his life — or, uh, not-quite-a-life — after all, and has honestly grown quite accustomed to the phenomenon. He and his father both share an undead curse which keeps them alive through physical atrocities that would no doubt kill the common man, so... perhaps this Gelert suffers the same curse...?

But... no.

Apparently not.

The very second that Oliver, his spells now charged, reaches over to press his fingertips into the pale hunter’s wounds, he immediately recoils and gasps from the feeling of gentle heat coming from the other pet’s body.

That’s something else that dead things don’t do:

Have body heat.

Oliver’s panic is now nearly doubled. How the hell is this even possible? “Good gods,” he begins again, just trying to talk himself through whatever’s happening — to keep himself calm by voicing his thoughts aloud — “you’re... you’re actually _alive_ -alive...” He gently but quickly pulls the half-dead Gelert’s hands away from the wound in his stomach, then begins to pull back the thick, torn fabric of his shirt to expose the entirety of the wound, cringing despite himself when he sees just how horrifically serious the injury is. “How the hell is this even possible...?” Oliver whispers to himself as he, after taking a solid breath to centre himself, finally begins attempting to reconstruct both the outside and in of this helpless hunter’s body.

Oliver isn’t sure whether he’s more impressed, scared, or angry by the fact that, again, in response to Oliver’s self-musings, the pale Gelert _insists_ on muttering out a meek, “I’ll explain later.”

Oliver shoots an annoyed glance towards the fallen hunter’s face as he hears the words and feels the man’s muscles contract with the breath they required, though he can’t make eye contact due to everything but the end of his muzzle still being concealed beneath his hair. “Stop talking,” Oliver commands sternly, trying his best to focus on his spellcasting despite his budding frustration.

The pale Gelert opens his mouth slightly as if to speak again, but upon his next inhale, he chokes and does nothing more than cough up an honestly frightening amount of blood. His wounds gush again, but Oliver is quick to tend to the further-tearing tissue. He expected nothing less, after all. “See what happens?” Oliver says, sarcastic as ever despite the panic that’s still causing his heart to pound from within his throat.

The fallen hunter, despite all of his crippling weakness, somehow manages to flip Oliver off.

It’s honestly impressive.

Oliver rolls his eyes, but then gets right back to work.

He thinks he’s figuring it out, though. The longer Oliver works on repairing the wounded Gelert, the more he begins to feel a faint magical current coursing through the man’s entire body, weak in its electric-seeming energy, but still strong enough to keep what’s important pulsing and regenerate blood... which explains why there’s such an ungodly amount of it surrounding them. Oliver supposes that he never thought to humour that explanation in the first place because... well, if this man can cast spells powerful enough to keep him living throughout all of _this_ , then why the hell didn’t he heal himself?

Can he... honestly not...?

Oliver decides to keep that question to himself for the time being, almost certain that, if he were to voice it, all it would do is engender more impudence. In fact, he chooses to not say anything further _at all_.

It’s a miserably painstaking process, but, slowly but surely, Oliver manages to reconstruct as much as he can of the fallen Gelert’s more serious wounds, confident that everything he might have missed — or doesn’t have the energy to fully complete — can be remedied with one of the restorative potions that he, thankfully, still carries on him in case of just such an emergency. With each new piece put back together, the slowly recovering Gelert who lies on the ground at Oliver’s knees begins to attempt using more of his reforming body — flexing his fingers, curling his tail, shifting his legs — until he is finally able to lift his arms entirely and pull a few locks of his tangled, blood-soaked hair out of his mouth and cough gently into one closed fist.

Oliver may or may not have decided to clear the Gelert’s throat and lungs of loose liquid _last_ to discourage any more snark.

But, alas...

Finally, with a sigh of relief — as well as pride for accomplishing such an incredible task in such a short amount of time — Oliver places one hand over the Gelert’s chest, channels one final, silent spell, instructs him to inhale... then the pale pet begins to cough violently, again spitting far too much blood out with every gurgling breath. But, well, that’s the point. Finally — and quickly now — gaining his strength back, the freshly healed hunter manages to prop himself up on his elbows as he chokes and gags, his arms shaking with weakness, but still stubbornly holding strong.

Oliver pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket and begins to wipe his hands as clean as he can, just for comfort’s sake. “Right,” he then begins, somewhat singsong, tossing the bloody kerchief over his shoulder and reaching into one of his coat’s other pockets, feeling around for one of the very few restorative vials he carries, “once you’re done hacking up your lungs, you will need to drink _this_ ” — he holds the vial out towards the other Gelert, confident that he will take it from his hands once he’s found the strength to sit up straight — “just in case I missed something.”

When the other Gelert just keeps coughing, Oliver, ever-worried despite his attempting to play passive, scoots a bit closer to the other’s face, then places a gentle hand over his back, half for comfort and half to apply another spell to help clear his lungs more quickly. He’s a bit more than surprised when the paler pet shies away from his touch, then begins to gently — weakly — bat a hand in Oliver’s direction, shaking his head as he attempts to talk through coughs: “Please,” the cream-coloured Gelert wheezes, “no more channelled magic.” Cough, cough, cough. “I can hardly stand the stuff.” Cough, cough, cough. “Plus you’ve already done s—“ — cough — “s-so much for me,” — cough, cough, cough — “you should save your en—” — cough, cough — “your energy...”

“It’s, uh...” Oliver lifts his hand, unsure if he should listen — the Gelert really _is_ taking a while to get his breathing back to normal, and this spell would _really_ help... — but then he figures he might as well listen to the stubborn man’s wishes... Unless he starts to reopen wounds. Then he doesn’t get a say anymore. “It’s... really no trouble, sir,” Oliver says, moving just the slightest bit closer, “but... whatever you say.” Pause. “You still need to drink the potion, though.”

Thankfully, the pale Gelert doesn’t object to that last statement; and, moreso, his coughing fit seems to be coming to an end. Oliver is still bewildered that this _living_ man is... well, still _alive_... but he’s glad that he was able to get here in time to help. After all, if the energy from whatever spells he was using to keep himself alive was faint enough that even _Oliver_ couldn’t detect it at first, he really _must_ have been close to death...

Eventually, finally, the coughing stops. Arms still trembling with weakness, and while panting out heavy, hoarse-sounding breaths, the pale Gelert forces himself onto his knees, then slowly rotates until he can sit up — weakly pulls his legs to his chest, buries his nose in his palms for a few seconds, then lets his breath steady as he rests his muzzle on his knees.

Oliver watches in a bit of respectful silence. He can’t imagine what this man’s just been through. He looks so weak...

But... well, apparently, even if his _body_ is still weak, his attitude definitely _isn’t_. After a few long seconds spent centring himself, still with his eyes completely concealed beneath his hair, the weak hunter extends a still-shaking hand out towards Oliver and gives a beckoning gesture with two fingers. Oliver understands what the motion means, of course, and quietly places the small vial into the other Gelert’s palm, giving a small nod as the injured hunter says a soft, sincere, “Thank you for all of this.”

“It’s no trouble, sir,” Oliver repeats himself, watching carefully — worriedly — as the Gelert struggles slightly to uncork the vial, then lifts its thick glass rim to his lips. “I’m... glad I got here in time to help.”

The other Gelert gives a few short nods, then tilts his head back to drink. His hair falls slightly out of his face with the motion, and Oliver finally catches a glimpse of his eyes — unfortunately, he can’t quite make out their colour due to the murkiness of heavily-bloodshot sclera, as well as one seems to be burned half-shut — and lightly freckled cheeks. He’s... kinda handsome, actually. But just kinda.

For the next minute or so, the two of them sit in a half-uncomfortable — but still mutually respectful — silence as the somehow-still-alive hunter regains the last of his strength, and Oliver keeps an eye on him in case something goes wrong... or he decides to attack. It’s hard to find other trustworthy hunters around this area, after all — nearly impossible, even. He can’t help but be a bit wary despite the man’s seeming sincerity...

But he tries his best to ignore the worried thoughts. After all, it looks like this man doesn’t have any weapons on him, while Oliver has plenty, as well as the fury of his natural ability to summon fire. With a short sigh to exhale the last of his worries, and seeing as the other Gelert finally looks relatively energised, Oliver decides to break the silence by asking a soft, polite, “May I have your name, sir?”

The blood-soaked hunter, who had comfortably rested one cheek on his knees as the potion took effect, lifts his nose to look in Oliver’s direction at the sound of the question, though his eyes, again, remain concealed beneath his hair. He seems to dwell on the question for a few seconds, as if debating whether or not he should answer, but then he lifts his nose to the overcast skies — again, very briefly revealing his eyes — and stands quickly — a little _too_ quickly for his still-weak muscles’ sake. He then tucks his left arm behind his back and holds his other hand out towards the Christmas Gelert, who also quickly stands, barely a second behind him. “My name is Shimon Stoneark,” the slightly taller Gelert energetically answers with a bloody grin as Oliver, a bit hesitantly dude to his surprise, takes a firm hold of his hand for an honest shake. “And may I ask for yours in return, moya krasivyy spasitel?”

_Wh—... did he just call me his “handsome saviour...?”_ Oliver clears his throat to avoid any accidental stuttering. “Sir Oliver Pauper Callahan, sir,” the Christmas Gelert then answers, though with a bit less confidence than he would have had if he hadn’t just been called by an oddly endearing petname three seconds into their first actual conversation. Still, he gives the other hunter’s hand a firm shake, bowing slightly in respect, letting his grip linger for the sake of attempting to silently learn a bit more about him. _His grip is still strong despite his weakness, so he’s probably a user of heavier or two-handed weapons, like... hmm... his fingers are... oddly spaced... what the hell kind of weapon_ does _he use...?_

Oliver quickly drops the other pet’s hand to avoid his confusion becoming apparent on his face. Thankfully, it doesn’t, as well as his internal question gets quickly answered when, the very second that their grasp is broken, Shimon gives an exaggerated sigh, then says a pleasantly singsongy, “Pleasure to meet you, sir, and thank you for your aid; now where the fuck did that asshole go with my scythe...”

_Ah, a scythe... that answers_ that _question..._ Still, Oliver can’t help but find the choice in weapon a bit bizarre. It isn’t a common hunter’s tool at all — which would explain why whoever attacked Shimon took the weapon as loot, actually — but he ignores the thought. A peculiar weapon for a peculiar man, he supposes. “I’m assuming you were attacked by another hunter rather than a beast, then, yes?” Oliver asks, just to be sure that his nearly infallible intuition is correct. After all, to be fair, he _has_ had scourge beasts run off with his weapons as if they were chew toys a few times before...

Shimon’s steps fall shaky at first, but once he finds his centre of gravity, he pivots nimbly on his heels, then begins towards one of the crumbling, blood-spattered buildings a few feet to his right. “Yes, yes, you are correct, sir; and... actually, thank you for reminding me...” Oliver holds his tongue as the other hunter lifts his arms slightly to channel a familiar-feeling spell, then throws his hands downward, sending all of the blood that soaked his fur and clothing splattering to the ground in messy splotches. His clothes now clean and dry, he shivers a bit as the residual magical energy leaves his body — _he really must not use magic very often if such a simple spell causes him such discomfort..._ — then runs his fingers through his hair — hair that, now that the blood is gone, Oliver can see has a pale blonde streak down the front right side. A bit puzzled, Oliver then mirrors the spell — it’s a common one for hunters to know, given how much blood tends to be involved in the trade — then watches the other Gelert make his way to the destroyed building, lean around the corner, say a singsong, “Oh! Thank goodness,” then disappear through what once must have been a doorway.

Oliver, still desperately at war with his own curiosity, especially considering how much energy this man seems to have despite literally _just_ being on the doorstep of death, follows the other Gelert and peeks around the wall to see what he’s doing. He finds that the man is picking through a small collection of clothing, small hunter tools, and what looks like journals that sit in a messy pile against the wall. _Odd..._

Shimon finally offers a complete answer to Oliver’s question as he shuffles the items around. “ _Some_ asshole decided to ambush me while I was trying to read and ran me through with a fucking greatsword,” he says, surprisingly casual, while pulling a long black coat off of the ground, shaking it off, then putting it on. “It happens,” he continues, sounding somehow even _more_ casual, fastening the coat closed to cover the tear in his clothing from the sword’s entry wound, “but he could’ve at least left me with my damn scythe... I love that thing...”

Oliver hums a bit in concerned acknowledgement, watching with his arms crossed as the other Gelert picks up a few books from off the ground, turns them over, then tucks them into his coat pocket; picks up a whistle clasped to a chain and slings it around his neck; picks up a small satchel full of what looks like potions, serrated knives, attractively smooth pebbles, and a few other small trinkets, then fastens it to his waist. Finally, with his back to Oliver, he pulls a thick black ribbon from one of his coat’s pockets, uses it to messily tie his hair back, then picks a simple black hunter’s hat off the ground, brushes the dust off of it on his hip, then puts it on with another exaggerated sigh.

Oliver is still just trying to figure him out, as well as infer any details he can about this man as he watches him move about. _His motions are very fluid, so it’s probably safe to assume he’s swift and heavily relies on dodging while he fights. At the same time, though, he keeps fumbling with objects as he picks them up, so... he’s also clumsy... at least dextrally. Sinisterly, he... huh, is he missing a finger on his left hand...? It... looks like it’s only his ring finger, so it couldn’t have been from the swing of a sword... perhaps he was bitten by a small creature...? But... how the hell could he have gotten such a specific wound, unless he was... hell, trying to_ feed _it, or something ridiculous like that... Is he honestly so reckless while on the hunt? I suppose it would fit in with his apparent personality, given the confidence he speaks and moves with, and his obvious dedication to the trade... Hmm... Regardless, he... looks like he’s gathering his things to leave, and he just... won’t stop mumbling about his stolen things... He can’t_ seriously _be about to go after whoever attacked him five minutes after nearly_ dying _at their hand, right...?_

Oliver didn’t realise that he’d asked that last question out loud until he hears Shimon laugh loudly — a bit theatrically — in response. “Oh, but I _must_ , Oliver!” he says, feigning a convincing thespian’s tone and throwing a fist over his heart in a false salute to the sun. He then spins around on his heels again, pulling the brim of his hat down low over his face as he does so, again concealing his eyes. He gives the Christmas Gelert who stands calmly watching him another crooked, still-rather-bloody grin as he lifts his nose to look at him. “ _Apparently_ I can hardly keep myself alive _with_ a weapon on hand,” he muses sarcastically, “so how am I supposed to survive _without_ one, hm?” Pause. He then snorts a bit, crossing his arms in a forced pout. “Plus the bastard must’ve taken my coins, too,” he adds with a sigh, “cus they’re not here anymore.” Pause. “And neither is my blunderbuss.” Another pause. “But moreso my coins...”

With everything of his that remains seemingly back in its proper place, Shimon then mumbles out a soft, “Now, where the fuck did they go...” while quickly moving about the what-once-was-a-room that he had left his things in — and, apparently, was initially attacked in — searching the walls and the floor for... something. Despite the fierce fight that the sun above is putting up against the clouds, its light isn’t nearly strong enough to illuminate the building’s stone walls, and the shadows cast within are thick as syrup. Oliver doesn’t bother to ask exactly _what_ it is that the other Gelert is looking for — he figures the question will answer itself with time — but he decides to help nonetheless, summoning a small but brightly burning flame into his left hand and stepping forward a bit to allow its light to brighten the walls in an eerie orange.

At the sight of the sudden light, Shimon whips around with incredible speed and an incredibly serious look on his face, his hand instinctively reaching towards his hip where one would typically keep a gun holstered — _Well, his survival instincts aren’t_ too _atrocious,_ _considering his reaction to a sudden flame is to reach for a weapon..._ — but then, the pale Gelert’s smile returns when he sees that it’s merely Oliver trying to help. He snaps his fingers, pointing them like fired pistols in the Christmas Gelert’s direction. “I like you, kid,” he mumbles through his crooked teeth, then continues searching the walls, all the while muttering to himself as he does so.

Eventually, he finds what he’s looking for, and announces the fact with a loud “ _Aha!_ ”

The “it” turns out to be more of a “them,” Oliver discovers as he leans forward a bit and, once again, pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose to see better. Buried beneath a small pile of dust and rubble lie several serrated hunter’s knives, some bent and broken, others still intact, _none_ of which are bloodied — whoever threw them must not have been very deft in their usage. Again, Oliver begins attempting to dissect what’s going on as he watches: _He’d already picked up a large number of serrated knives of his own, so those must belong to his attacker instead. The hilt’s decorations seem different, anyway — more local in design. He must be planning on using them for..._

“Do you know any dowsing spells?” Shimon asks loudly, completing — and affirming — Oliver’s thoughts with the words, spinning around while holding a few of the knives up between his fingers.

Well, _of course_ Oliver does — it’s basic, often necessary magic — but still, rather than offer a serious answer at first, he gives the pale hunter bit of a snarky grin and a cocks an eyebrow. “Does your search plan rely on whether or not I say ‘yes?’ ” he asks sarcastically.

Shimon laughs theatrically again. “For once, I will not flatter you,” he replies, “because the answer is no. _However_ ,” — he points all the knives in Oliver’s direction, gesturing a bit with his hands as he speaks — “I _loathe_ casting those damned spells, so it would be _much_ appreciated if you could do the honours.” He forces a shiver at the thought, looking away and folding his arms. “S’all weird and tingly and I do _not_ enjoy it...”

Oliver can hardly believe someone with such obvious magical strength as this man _wouldn’t_ want to cast magic — he himself uses it as often as possible, after all, and quite enjoys the “tingliness” — but he accepts the response with no sass given its genuineness. Still, he sighs a bit before giving a legitimate response. “Well, if you _insist_ , I _do_ know several strong dowsing spells,” he replies, and... well, though he had planned more of a response than that, he doesn’t have time to say it before Shimon claps his hands — a bit of an awkward, palm-heavy slap, considering he’s still holding the knives — and says a short, excited, “Good!”

Oliver decides to leave it at that, then. After all, the man’s enthusiasm is honestly endearing. He doesn’t really want to shatter his excitement.

Oliver shakes his head with a bit of a smile on his muzzle as Shimon approaches his side once more, then casually shifts his weight while still maintaining the same half-sarcastic posture. He’s perceptive enough to assume what’s coming next, so... “Judging by your expression,” he begins, lowering his nose to give Shimon a knowing glance, “I’m assuming that you are _also_ going to ask me to provide you with a replacement for your lost weapon in the meantime, hmm?”

He’s a little surprised when the other Gelert, rather than answering with words alone, places one hand firmly — a bit roughly — on Oliver’s shoulder with absolutely infallible confidence, then tilts his head with an only _slightly_ less-menacing grin. “Would you be a dear?” he asks, his rough tenor’s tone never leaving the realm of pure theatrics, holding the knives out for Oliver to take with his other hand.

Yes, it’s true, forming alliances with unknown hunters can be a lethal mistake in this cruel, deceptive world; but... well, this strange man seems to have nothing less than perfectly honest intents... if not a bit of a strange way of expressing them. Despite the malicious-seeming look on his face, there’s really no dishonesty in his tone — merely genuine questioning, and still a twinge of respectful thankfulness. Plus, Oliver _does_ always carry an extra saw cleaver on him, so...

With a bit of a genuine snicker, Oliver gives the slightest hint of a bow, draping one arm over his diaphragm and holding his other hand a few inches out in front of him. “I would love to, sir,” he says, taking the knives from the other hunter’s clawed fingers, “but... only after we find your attacker, agreed?”

He can’t help but mirror the expression when the slightly-taller pet’s grin turns sinister once more. “Agreed.”

 

~

 

It takes a little bit longer than either of them would have liked to catch up with whoever-the-hell had left Shimon in the dirt to die, but... well, neither of them are really complaining about the trek. Turns out, they actually get along quite splendidly, so the walk has been full of nothing but shared stories, laughter, and pleasantries. Truly, Oliver feels like he hasn’t smiled this much in ages. Maybe it’s just because Shimon’s menacing grin is so contagious, or maybe it really _is_ just the easy flow of their conversation and the fact that they seemingly share so many thoughts on the nuances of the hunter’s trade; but, regardless, this day seems to have taken a turn for the better, and they are _both_ glad to have someone who _doesn’t_ annoy the hell out of them keeping them company for once.

But then they catch up to him.

Seemingly in unison, the two Gelerts detect the shift in energy as Oliver’s dowsing spell’s resonance becomes more tight, and they both immediately hush at the knowing that their target must be close. One of the things they’ve discovered on their long walk over here is that they can both read each other’s body languages perfectly, even after only knowing each other for barely a few hours now. They both hush in unison, slow and silence their steps in unison, creep out to look over the edge of the long row of buildings they’ve been walking upon in unison, then both catch a glimpse of the third, hostile hunter in unison.

This third hunter looks to be an older man, dressed in charred but regal garb, an ornate broadsword fastened to his back alongside what Oliver assumes must be Shimon’s gun and collapsed burial blade. The man looks to be an Acara, ashy black in colour, with a tangled mess of greying hair clinging around his eyes ears. He kneels over the body of what looks to be _another_ ambushed victim — one not at all as lucky as Shimon was when it came to the whole being-ran-through-with-a-sword business — and picking through the fourth hunter’s pockets. It’s a bit sad that making kills and looting the corpses seems to be all that the man cares about... he must be close to turning...

Ah well.

He won’t be around much longer.

When Oliver feels the gentle tapping of Shimon’s claws against his arm, he looks over to see the pale Gelert curling his fingers in a beckoning motion, which Oliver immediately understands to mean, _Give me a weapon_. The Christmas Gelert silently pulls his trusty saw cleaver from its place against his hip and hands it to Shimon, curiously — albeit very respectfully — admiring the suddenly determined, serious expression that’s now glued to the pale hunter’s face. He looks like a completely different person in this moment — ready to kill, and with all signs of smiles gone. The obvious murder conveyed through Shimon’s tight expression is something that Oliver _might_ be opposed to, given any other circumstances, but...

Well, one thing that the two of them discovered they had in common while discussing this-and-that on the walk over here was the joy of retribution. Giving one what’s deserved can be a delicious endeavour, especially after being wronged, so Oliver doesn’t even bother to give the notion of helping his new friend out with this revenge attack a single thought. Sure, maybe if something goes wrong, he’ll hop into the fray to help; but for now...

Oliver gives Shimon a knowing grin and a small nod when the pale hunter looks over to him — as if he were asking Oliver permission to strike — and though Shimon, for once, doesn’t return the other pet’s dark grin, he gives a thankful nod of his own in response to Oliver’s affirmance, then takes the cleaver from the Christmas Gelert’s hand and snaps it open.

The two of them take a few more slow, cautious steps towards the building’s ledge, then Oliver crouches down low, eager to see how his new friend fights. He honestly isn’t sure what to expect, given the fact that he seems to be equal parts clumsy and cocky, so his excitement is nearly strong enough to burst through his chest. He prepares for an incredible battle...

And is... actually rather disappointed.

It’s more of a brutal one-shot kill.

With absolute, unrefined abandon, Shimon gives a silent and determined leap off the building’s ledge, aiming to crack the sorry bastard’s skull to pieces with the cleaver’s serrated edge...

And his aim is perfect.

He lands the hit with so much force that it’s a miracle the saw doesn’t shatter, and he himself stumbles and half-falls over once its landed. Still, all it takes is that one ruthless attack and — crack, splash, snap — the whoever-the-hell is beyond history, splattered across the ground like a piece of rotted fruit.

It’s such a disgusting mess down below that Oliver can’t help but cringe and suck air through his teeth. “ _Bloody hell_ , man,” he calls over the ledge, hesitantly standing straight and watching as Shimon struggles to regain his balance after the too-far leap. He no doubt must have strained some muscles with the landing...

Oliver doesn’t get a response to his comment at first, though. The pale Gelert, still reeling a bit from his kill, leaves the bloody cleaver in place and takes a wobbly step back, seemingly examining his work. His body language slowly shifts from a furious, shaking mess, to a calm pose of simple recognition, then he finally takes a painfully casual stance with his hands on his hips, giving a theatrically huffed sigh of relief.

His grin finally back at home on his now-blood-spattered muzzle, Shimon angles his head over his shoulder and leans slightly back to give Oliver a glance from the ground below. “Well!” he begins loudly, his entire demeanour suddenly and immediately shifted from his terrifying hunter’s persona to his energetic, talkative default. He then gestures towards the destroyed body with one impassive hand. “The prey has been slaughtered!”

Oliver can’t help but shake his head and laugh — honestly a bit uncomfortable, but still mostly in awe at the display. “Well,” he says, somewhat sarcastically mirroring Shimon’s light accent, leaping gently from the ledge and landing gracefully on the ground below, “it, indeed, was a slaughter.”

Shimon looks proud of himself.

Which is... a tad unnerving... but, still, Oliver understands. The sorry sod started it, after all.

Shimon takes a few short seconds to crack his back and flex his wrists while Oliver approaches from behind, then eagerly kneels over his kill to take back his things, first picking through the mangled hunter’s pockets to find the pouch of shining coins he hasn’t stopped bitching about for the past hour or so, then taking the two halves of his scythe from the hunter’s back, running his fingers along their edges to ensure that they’re both unscathed.

Oliver watches with an impressed look in his eyes as Shimon stands straight then skilfully — albeit a bit melodramatically — clicks open the folded snath and snaps the blade in place on its end, successfully transforming his scythe back into its obnoxiously-large — but incredibly intimidating — full form. He gives the slender weapon a theatrical twirl, as if to test its weight and reaccustom himself to using it, then firmly plants its base into the ground, leaning casually against it and and turning to give Oliver that menacing grin the Christmas Gelert has already come to love. “Alright,” Shimon says, “I’m happy now.”

Oliver gives a bit of a laugh. “Well, you’ve done some, ah...” — he gestures flippantly at the practically decapitated body at their feet — “ _outstanding_ work here, Shimon.”

Despite the gore, Oliver then makes his way over to where his saw cleaver still rests with its blade imbedded deeply into what once was this third hunter’s skull and pulls it from the mangled wreck of a corpse, cringing a bit again at just how bloody the mess is, but then just casually shaking the saw’s teeth as clean as possible and snapping the weapon back into its smaller state. He fastens the cleaver back to his side as Shimon searches the folds of the fallen hunter’s coat until he finds his blunderbuss, slings its harness over his shoulder, then, with a hum of contemplation, leans over the body once again to examine the sword fastened to the hunter’s back.

Oliver crosses his arms, rhythmically tapping his fingers against his bicep. “I take it that’s the sword that nearly killed you, hmm?” he muses sarcastically, looking back up to try to read Shimon’s half-concealed expression.

At first, Oliver is a little worried by the fact that the pale Gelert doesn’t respond with the laughter he was expecting; but then, he realises it’s merely because his new friend’s thoughts were a bit preoccupied. “Eto ochen prekrasnyy mech...” Shimon muses in a half-whisper, obviously struck by the ornate sword’s beauty.

_He_ can’t _be serious..._ Oliver shakes his head. “Are you taking it as a trophy, then?” he asks, though his question is quickly answered when Shimon collapses his scythe, fastens its two halves beside his blunderbuss, then kneels down to pull the heavy weapon off of the third hunter’s back.

Still, he doesn’t say anything at first, instead further examining the weapon. Turns out, the large “blade” is actually a scabbard, housing a smaller silver sword within... but that’s boring. Shimon pulls the smaller blade from its sheath, turns it over in his hands a few times, then snaps it back into place within the intricately decorated, bloodstained sheath — the one that nearly took his life. “No, no...” he eventually answers Oliver, lifting the sword by its hilt in a clumsy attempt at learning its weight. His grin then returns as he turns to look Oliver in the face. “I’m taking it to _use_.”

Oliver can’t help but laugh as he watches the other Gelert toying with the oversized weapon. “Do you even know how to use a sword of that size?” he asks, more meant as a rhetorical snipe than anything, though he’d be lying if he wasn’t at least _a bit_ genuinely curious.

As if the fact that Shimon immediately stumbles and half-falls while trying figure out how to properly hold the heavy weapon wasn’t enough of an answer, the pale Gelert also gives a gentle snort and says an incredibly confident, “Nope, not the slightest bit.”

Oliver simply shakes his head again.

Eventually — and surprisingly quickly — Shimon manages to take a strong enough stance to properly hold and gently brandish the sword without stumbling, then carefully but confidently twirls it to rest over his right shoulder, the motion graceful enough that, if Oliver hadn’t just seen him struggling to simply _hold_ the damn thing, it would seem as if he’d owned the sword for ages and knew it as an old friend.

There’s a bit of a pleasant silence as the two simply exchange glances and try to suppress their laughter — not like anything _funny_ has happened, though; it’s just... the atmosphere here, despite the horribly macabre circumstances and surroundings, is just so... pleasant. Energetic. Playful. They just... are really, really loving each other’s company.

Eventually, Shimon turns his nose to look up at the quickly darkening sky, as if to read the heavens for the time, though it’s impossible to tell the sun’s position given the white wash of nothingness that coats the air like ash. “Well,” he begins, his voice still theatric as ever, “I’m _definitely_ satisfied now. And...” — he lowers his head to once again look Oliver in the face — “I suppose that you must be off now, dear Oliver?”

Well... the answer to that question is definitely “yes,” but...

Oliver, too, turns to look up at the sky, holding his chin in a bit of mock contemplation. “Hmm... well, yes, I really _must_ get going,” he muses to the clouds, “for I have to finish responding to a call claiming there’s a bloodletting beast wreaking havoc somewhere a few miles away from where we met, after all.” With a sly grin, Oliver then turns his attention back down to the Gelert who stands across from him, cocking an eyebrow and giving him a knowing look. “ _However_ ,” he continues, his tone acerbic, though still genuinely hopeful, “if you’ve accomplished all that you set out to do, then... would you perhaps care to join me?”

For once, Shimon’s grin looks purely pleased rather than as if it were hiding any darker motives. He’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t hoping Oliver would ask that question.

Finally, after hours of silent refusal, the pale Gelert lifts the brim of his hat with his thumb, fully revealing his eyes to Oliver — one shining a kind, beautiful gold, the other burned terribly and clearly blind, but still somehow sparkling with life — then lets out a light laugh. “Ollie, darling,” he says, smiling bright and twirling the sword — _his_ sword — in his hand, “I would love nothing more.”

And Oliver, once again, can’t help but match the grin.


End file.
